


Noble Defender of Poor Defenceless Widows

by Corycides



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything that he has done Sebastian Monroe isn't a man who deserves, or expects, any favours from the universe. So if the universe leaves something good lying around, he's going to take it...or her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noble Defender of Poor Defenceless Widows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steph_Schell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steph_Schell/gifts).



‘You’re still my brother,’ Miles said, cutting the ropes. Feeling tingle-itched back into Bass’ fingers as he stood up, waiting for the other shoe to drop. There was always another shoe. ‘Now, take care of them for me.’

‘What?’

Miles glanced at him, mouth twisting into something like a smile, and grabbed the bullpup Tavor from the door. ‘Bye, Bass.’

He stepped out of the tent and opened fire. Bass took a step after him, but…they’d run this play before. It was the first time in years that Miles had trusted him. He couldn’t let him down. Not again. Grimacing, he ducked out the back of the tent - sprinting for the Tower while his men tried to kill his brother.

The son-of-a-bitch.

* * *

It was a sin to be happy that someone was dead. Cynthia hoped that God would forgive her, because He had yet to give her the strength to stop.

She sat at the table in her kitchen and ate fish paste sandwiches without worrying about the smell. The kitchen stank, her fingers stank. There was probably a faint aroma of tuna in the attic and she didn’t give a da...crap. She sucked fish scraps off fingers and grinned to herself.

Then she heard the gate creak - it always creaked, she never got around to fixing it, even now she couldn’t admit why she loved that warning scrape of metal - and she flinched so hard it hurt. Even though he was dead, even though he was burned and buried and gone, the fear still lodged in her throat like a bone.

She sat - making herself small and unobjectionable - and waited for the knock on the door. It would be one of the women from church with sad-food - mostly pies, she had more pies than a circus could eat - or the parents of one the kids from school. No knock.

Maybe it had just been the wind, she told herself, or some of the local children playing. Or it could be thieves or raiders. Cynthia wiped her hands on her jeans and got the shotgun from the back door, cradling it in the crook of her arm as she stepped out onto the porch.

There was a man in her garden, most of a dead deer slung over his shoulder. She stared at him, he stared at the…shotgun.

‘Sorry,’ she said, setting it down against the railing. ‘I just wasn’t expecting anyone.’

The man frowned at her. ‘Pick up the damn shotgun, and don’t apologise to strangers you find in your garden.’

She smiled at him. ‘You’re not a stranger, you’re Aaron’s friend. Larry Underwood.’

It was an alias - an obvious one at that, people did still read - but that wasn’t any of her business. He’d hardly be the first in town not to be using the name he was born with for one reason or another. He grunted and shrugged the deer off his shoulder.

‘With your husband dying,’ he said. ‘Thought you might need some food. Everyone always brings you cake after a funeral, but after a while...’

He trailed off, looking mortified at being caught being kind and...sad.

‘Sounds like you’re talking from experience,’ Cynthia said gently.

He gave her a flat, cold look. ‘That’s not really any of your business, is it?’

It wasn’t a threat, but the banked violence in his eyes made her step back anyhow. The thread of connection she’d felt snapped and she had to resist the urge to reach for the shotgun. She tried for a smile.

‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t suppose it is. Thank you for the deer. If you leave it there-’

‘I’ll butcher it for you,’ Underwood said. He pulled a knife from his belt and crouched down, one knee braced on the heavy furred shoulder. ‘You have a salting keg?’

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Cynthia protested.

He sawed through the thick hide, peeling it back from the meat with the crackle of tearing fat. ‘Not going to leave you to do it, am I?’

There didn’t seem much point to arguing with him. Cynthia took her shotgun back inside and left him to it. After what felt like a rude forever, she took a sandwich and a cup of hot tea out to him. He gave her a sceptical look, but wiped his hands on his jeans and accepted it.

‘This is very kind of you,’ she said, feeling the need to fill the silence with something. ‘Everyone’s been...very kind in this difficult time.’

He finished the sandwich, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘From what I heard, you’re well-rid of him.’

Cynthia inhaled, ready to defend him, ready to lie. Except she didn’t need to anymore. ‘I am,’ she admitted - aloud, for the first time. It made her feel light-headed and she had to sit down on the steps. Her hands clutched at her knees. ‘I’m not even sad.’

He got her to hold one of the legs up as he carved messily away.

* * *

If Cynthia had ever thought about having friends, she’d probably have imagined trading gossip with Rachel Porter or shop talk with Aaron during the lunch break at school. Moody, dangerous Larry Underwood wouldn’t have even been at the bottom of list.

Somehow, though, it was easier to talk to him - even when he didn’t talk back. He was kind - although he’d bite your head off if you told him that - and he didn’t...he didn’t pity her. Besides, once she started paying attention to him, she thought he might be the only person in Willoughby more isolated than she was. He had come to town with Aaron and Rachel, but they hardly seemed tolerant of each other - never mind friendly.

So he brought her game - leaving it hung at her down like a particularly tidy cat - and she imposed her company on him quite unrepentantly. It seemed mostly unappreciated, but he ate the cakes she left on his desk and while he never thanked her for the loan of her books, he did - once or twice - remark gruffly that he’d enjoyed a particular author.

He smiled at her once, and she fell in love with him a little.

* * *

There were men who deserved good fortune. Bass knew he wasn’t one of them. Fuck it though. If the universe inadvertently dropped something nice into his lap, he was keeping it as long as he could.

He lay on his back on the sun-warmed boards of his room, with a handful of firm bottom and the taste of Cynthia still on his lips. Her hands were braced against his chest, nails digging into his skin, as she moved up and down on his cock. Small tits - nipples shiny wet and puckered from his mouth - bounced on her chest.

The first time she’d come to his bed he’d rolled her off her halfway through. She’d been so quiet and still it had felt like rape, even though she insisted she wanted him. A bit of trial and error had established that she liked fucking - just not missionary position and not in a bed. It didn’t take a genius to work out that was probably something to do with the finally departed Lucas.

So they did on the floor or on her desk at work, her legs wrapped around his hips and as she giggled into his neck at the naughtiness of it, in the garden at her house.

She whimpered, a low, mewling sound, and her body tightened around in fluttering waves. Blue eyes squeezed shut and she folded her lower lip between her teeth. Bass dragged her down for a kiss, rolling them onto their side and tugging her leg up over his hip. The slow roll of his hips against hers made her whimper in frustration. ‘Cyn,’ he said, mouthing his name against her throat. ‘You know, when you’re about to come you look like a sneezing kitten.’

Her eyes shut open and she spluttered. ‘I do not!’

He grinned at her. ‘It’s cute.’

She flexed around him, her turn to make him groan. ‘I don’t want to be cute when we’re making love. I want to be...sexy, sensual.’

‘Call it fucking and I’ll admit you aren’t cute,’ he said, reaching down he pushed callused fingers roughly into her wet sex. She gasped and shuddered, pushing against him with wordless eagerness. ‘Without blushing.’

Later he’d be angry that he was so careless not to hear the creak of footsteps on the stairs. He’d not wanted anyone to know the local schoolmarm was fucking the town’s violent drunk. It would make trouble for her when they left, and they’d have to leave one day.

In the moment, he was just pissed off they’d not waited five more minutes.

‘Monroe,’ Gene Porter’s voice was clipped with barely controlled disdain for the man who’d imprisoned his daughter. ‘Something’s happen...oh.’

‘Cynthia?’ Aaron blurted, voice full of a fat man’s heartbreak. ‘Get off her, you son of a bitch. What are you doing to her!’

‘Making her come?’ was apparently not what Aaron wanted to hear. With an inarticulate sound of rage, Aaron lunged into the room and dragged Bass off Cynthia. He shoved him into the corner of the room, face red and fists clenched.

‘I’ll kill you for this,’ he half-sobbed. ‘She’s good and kind and you just had to sully that, just had to degrade it.’

Cynthia hit him with a book. ‘It?’ she snapped, still naked and slick from Bass’ mouth and cock. ‘I’m not an it, Aaron. And he wasn’t doing anything to me I didn’t want him too.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ Aaron said. ‘You don’t really know him.’

It was the truth. Cynthia, god love her, raised her chin. ‘I know what matters.’ Bass had known this day would come though. The universe always remembered to shit over anything good in his life - what he didn’t screw up on his own.

Aaron jabbed a fat finger at him and Bass resisted the urge to break it. ‘He’s-’

‘Enough,’ Porter snapped. ‘We still need him, Aaron. Cynthia, put your clothes on.’

‘Don’t talk to her like that, Porter,’ Bass said, voice dropping to the purring control he’d used as President Monroe. The voice that reminded Porter that their alliance was balanced on the quicksand of mutually assured destruction. People in Texas might hate the leader of the Monroe Militia (bad losers), but they’d hate the person who destroyed the world even more. If Porter didn’t want his daughter lynched, he could mind his tongue.

‘It’s ok,’ Cynthia said. ‘I would probably prefer not to be naked right now.’

She grabbed her dress and pulled it on, thin cotton clinging to her thighs and breasts. Bass clenched his teeth against a growl. He’d spent all day with his balls aching because he’d known she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Now Aaron knew too.

‘If you could excuse us, Cynthia,’ Porter said, voice chilly with courtesy. ‘We need to talk to Larry.’

Cynthia glanced at him, eyes wide and uncertain. He nodded. ‘I’ll see you later, Cyn.’

‘No,’ Aaron said. ‘You won’t.’

It took a lot of control not to just break the fat man’s nose. It was the only fact that Bass knew Cynthia would run to his side, all gentle hands and concern, that stopped him. Of course, if Aaron threw the first punch…

‘Make me,’ he drawled.

‘Stop it!’ Cynthia snapped. ‘I’m not a bone to be argued over. If I want to see him, Aaron, I will. You can’t stop me. Neither can you, Gene.’

She kissed Bass before she left, standing on her tiptoes and pressing her lips to his. He appreciated the thought, but his cock could have done without the reminder of what it was missing. On the other hand, Aaron looked like the kiss was a fish hook in his soul - so maybe it was worth it.

Gene waited, jaw clenched, until Cynthia was gone.

‘You’re going to stay away from that girl,’ he snapped. ‘She deserves better than-’

Bass laughed at him, a jackal’s bark of humourless mockery. ‘Since when do you care what Cyn deserves?’ he asked. ‘How many times have you set her wrist, you old hypocrite? Four times? Five? You stitched up that gash on her forearm too. Or did she deserve that?’

Discomfort grimaced over Porter’s mouth. ‘That wasn’t any of my business. Married-’

It was Aaron who blurted out his shocked condemnation. ‘For fuck’s sake, man. He beat her - that’s your business.’

‘She never asked for help.’

‘You knew she needed it,’ Bass said.

‘And you think that gives you the right to judge me? Did you stop your militia beating their wives?’

‘I’m a monster,’ Bass said. ‘You’re the sainted Doctor Porter - you were willing to torture people to death for your Patriot masters, but not to run a wife beater out of town?’

Porter looked away, swallowing hard. ‘What I did, or didn’t do, isn’t the point now,’ he said. It wasn’t warm, but sweat was breaking on his forehead and his skin was flushed. ‘The Patriots have taken Rachel to talk to their high command. We have to stop them leaving Willoughby. That's more important than Monroe's seedy assignations with our school teacher.’

It was something of a surprise to Bass that he wasn't entirely sure that was true.


End file.
